


This is what it takes to breathe

by Elisexyz



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Little Spoon Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25734256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Everyone knows that the best cure for nightmares is a big hug.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 69
Kudos: 300





	This is what it takes to breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [these two Tumblr prompts](https://heytheredeann.tumblr.com/post/626363219894829056/prompt-please-geralt-wakes-up-from-a-nightmare), clearly sent by people who share my taste in fanfiction tropes LOL. I'm very happy to deliver more hugs to Geralt, he needs them.

One moment he’s launching forward, the next he’s lying on the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

Moved by instinct alone, Geralt pushes himself up, thinking that he must have lost a few seconds of the fight in a fit of blind rage, and he needs to get back on his feet, where the fuck did his sword go—

His vision swoons as he tries to push himself on his feet, biting back a curse when his fingers can’t seem to find any weapon nearby. He registers burning pain below his ribcage – annoying, but bearable, a problem for later –, just as he notices that he can’t see the—the—what was he fighting, again?

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, trying to concentrate on the sounds around him, but the only thing he can hear is his heart throbbing, way too fast. Maybe he mixed potions, was he even that worried about fighting the—cockatrice? No, not a cockatrice, it must have been a wyvern, he was worried about the venom and—

Fuck.

The reason for his blind attempt at launching forward hits him all at once, panic seizing him as he frantically looks around, cursing his eyes for taking a few moments too long for focus on the trees and Roach and—Jaskier is lying at a few feet of distance from him, awfully _still_ , slumped on the ground like—

He's somehow sure that Jaskier got hit, Geralt _saw_ it, it tore a scream out of him, and he has to wonder if the wyvern just left them both for dead and took off, maybe injured, but he finds that he doesn’t care for much besides dragging himself over there and _making sure_ —

He might just be unconscious. If Geralt’s blood could stop roaming in his ears he might be able to hear a heartbeat.

As it is, he has to close the distance between them by himself, giving up on trying to call out after two attempts that saw him unable not to choke on even a simple word, his fingers finally closing around Jaskier’s shoulder and shaking, hard.

He’s half expecting him to roll over, eyes shot open and chest still. Instead, Jaskier stiffens, takes a deep breath and turns to him, eyes wide and confused quickly clearing when he takes a look at him.

“Geralt?”

It’s loud, Geralt’s head protests at the intrusion, he wants to get some rest, but it’s still beautiful to hear, on some level.

“What are you _doing_ up?” Jaskier asks, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t have the words to answer that. His hand is still clutching Jaskier’s shoulder, his head feels _heavy_ , his own throbbing heartbeat is a very unpleasant background noise, stealing away his concentration, not letting him hear everything that he’d _need_ to—

Jaskier is awake and talking and he doesn’t _look_ injured, surely if he’d been poisoned or sliced open it’d be clear by now, but everything is still swooning a bit and he’s tired and vaguely nauseous and his blood is boiling and he just needs to _be sure_ —

He slides his hand down, on Jaskier’s chest, and _finally_ there it is. His shoulders slump a little in relief: even if the heartbeat is too fast – might mean fear, injury, fever, _anything_ – it’s there, it’s lively, and it could just be because Jaskier is looking at him with that expression that says he’s _worried_ anyway, his heart always speeds up when he’s worried.

“We aren’t in danger, are we?” Jaskier eventually asks, looking at him in the eye.

Geralt swallows glass, takes an unsteady breath, shakes his head. If there were something else with them, they’d probably be dead already.

Jaskier nods, pressing his lips together and hesitating for a moment before asking: “Did you have a nightmare?”

Geralt feels his face twitching, some sense of shame returning as his panic slowly subdues and reality slides back into place. The wyvern was real, he thinks. Jaskier was lying on his bedroll, comfortably asleep. The wound under his ribs is bandaged. The fight must have been some time ago.

Jaskier takes his silence as a yes, breaking into a brisk smile. “Well, I’m sure that even witchers know that the universal cure for nightmares is a big hug,” he announces, with too much confidence for a man saying something like _that_.

Geralt realizes then that his hand is still firmly placed on Jaskier’s chest, and that he should probably remove it. He doesn’t need to: Jaskier takes advantage of their position to grab his wrist, tugging at him.

“Come here, come on!” he prompts, making space for him as he eases back down on his bedroll, pulling him down with him.

Geralt could put up a fight, he normally _would_ put up a fight, but there’s still so much leftover panic buzzing under his skin, his breathing now more even and his heart set at a less concerning, if still too quick, pace but his stomach twisted on itself and a lump stuck in his throat, his muscles twitching in anticipation for a fight and something in him dreading the thought of getting his eyes off Jaskier for even a second.

He lets himself be pulled down, Jaskier gently guiding him to rest his head against his shoulder, wrapping Geralt’s arm over himself. He doesn’t seem worried about being _smothered_ , if anything he’s smiling, but Geralt still doesn’t feel quite right, tense and ironically _unnerved_ by the silence, fear rearing its ugly head once again and making him want to beg for proof of life, ridiculous as it may be, because he _knows_ that he’s fine, clearly, if he could just _concentrate_ and stop fretting for a second he’d hear it perfectly well—

He’s just about tired and desperate enough for a reminder impossible to ignore that he shifts, sliding farther down until his ear is pressed against Jaskier’s chest, right over his _obviously_ still beating heart.

It draws a sigh of relief out of him, some tension melting from his shoulders in a few seconds, and a noise of surprise out of Jaskier. He doesn’t seem put off, though, instead adjusting his grip on him and reaching to run his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

His fingers involuntarily clap Jaskier’s shirt, which prompts him to stop for a moment.

“Is this okay?” Jaskier asks, his hand hovering just above his head.

“Hmm.”

Jaskier snorts, amused, correctly interpreting that as a yes and resuming his attempt at soothing. “Oh, he speaks!” he teases, without malice. A pause. “Well. More or less. ‘He hums!’. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?”

Geralt allows himself a little smile, the jovial and familiar voice relaxing him further, doing wonders to convince him that he’s aching and confused and annoyingly slow but still safe, that everything is alright.

“You are pretty warm—well, just warm enough for a human, but for _you_ it’s probably raging fever, hopefully it will be gone come morning—I hope you aren’t bleeding again,” Jaskier starts thinking aloud, unbothered by his silence. “Maybe I should have checked—but, I mean, I’ve seen you sleep off worse, and you’d tell me if you were bleeding out, wouldn’t you?”

Geralt hums in agreement, his eyes drifting shut. He _is_ feeling awfully tired, which _could_ be a sign of excessive blood loss, but—if he is to die, his current position is at least more comfortable than he would have dreamed possible. And he isn’t alone. It’s quite alright, as far as deaths go.

“Good, we wouldn’t want you to cover me in blood—again. I am in dire need of new clothes, I’ve lost two shirts in the past three weeks—and my pants need mending.”

“I’ll do it,” Geralt readily says. It comes out low and half-dead, but no less sincere. He remembers with exasperated fondness when Jaskier began travelling with him and he had no idea how to sew the simplest of garments: he was convinced he’d have to buy new clothes whenever he tore them. At first, Geralt thought to leave him to it, thinking Jaskier might cease following him if faced with realities he wasn’t equipped to handle, but it didn’t last long.

These days, Jaskier can very well sew his own clothes, but Geralt still offers, sometimes. Jaskier’s face always softens up when he does, and it makes Geralt’s chest squeeze pleasantly.

If his eyelids weren’t so _heavy_ , he’d try to spy Jaskier’s face, to take in his reaction. Instead, he keeps lying there, listens to Jaskier’s breath itching once as the fingers running through his hair stop for a moment, feels a light kiss on his head.

“Maybe when you are better,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt thinks he managed to hum in acknowledgement, though his head is heavy and he can feel himself slipping away, not even sure if he wants to resist. “Sleep well, dear heart,” he hears at last.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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